


Unspoken

by Ori (magnetium)



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-19
Updated: 2007-01-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 05:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetium/pseuds/Ori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief study of Delores Landingham and her relation with President Bartlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

Delores Landingham knows a secret. She knows that the best pens to be had in the city are very close at hand. All one has to do is travel out to visitor’s pavilion, into the gift shop, and purchase a box of White House Writing Pens, 12 ct. per box. Each box costs $39.95 (although it is possible to buy just one for $6.95), and each time she purchases a new box, she marks the expense down carefully on the spending report she files each month.

The pens aren’t technologically superior or advanced; they can’t write in space or record each word they write on a tiny hard drive. They don’t need to. They only need to write in solid, black ink that never waivers, have a weight in one’s hand that gives them a sense of substance, and be designed in a distinctive navy blue with gold lettering. They are unobtrusive and ever relied upon, much like Delores herself. These pens sign bills into laws – without them, important things would not be accomplished. Still they are seldom thought of beyond the secretary’s desk outside of the Oval Office. God, as her father (and, disturbingly, Friedrich Nietzsche, a fact she has never quite been able to reconcile) would say, is in the details.

Delores arrives at the office promptly at five a.m. She walks in as they are re-filling the vases with flowers. Today, it is tulips. Fitting for a spring day, one sure to be filled with sunshine and budding colors, although at the moment there is a decided chill in the air. She taps her code into the thermostat and raises the temperature a few degrees.

The first thing she does is go over the President’s schedule for the day. It goes into the top spot in her Daily Binder, followed by a copy of her own schedule (everything that needs to be done in order for the President to keep his), summaries of any reports pertaining to his meetings that day (in case he needs a quick reminder, which is not often the case, but is very important if she is the last person he sees before a visiting ambassador is let into the room), and a blank phone log, waiting to be filled with crisp, orderly lines of names and extension numbers. This is the skeleton of the Daily Binder – it will be overflowing by the end of the day, despite her best efforts.

Then she begins on the mail. Anything with the President’s private mail code on it she double-checks against the names on her list. If it’s a name she doesn’t recognize, it is put aside for later. If she can find the name, it goes onto the mail tray, which will later also hold a cup, saucer, and a small pot of tea. This morning it will be a pot of Darjeeling, part of a gift from Lord John Marbury.

Charlie comes in only a few moments after that, and after exchanging pleasantries, he starts on his work for the morning – he has started using his own Daily Binder after seeing hers, a fact that gives her a nice sense of satisfaction. A hum of work descends upon the office until 6:30 a.m., when Charlie calls the President to tell him it is time to get up. Delores knows he won’t be happy about that this morning, after being up until 3 a.m. meeting with senior staff. She glances at the paperweight on her desk: a crystal orb, engraved with intricate flowers and hummingbirds. Etched into bottom of it are the words, “Live now, sleep later.”

****

Jed Bartlet knows that the library would be the appropriate place to study, but he can’t bring himself to leave. Mrs. Landingham’s office is so calm and cool, the heat of the day skulking outside the door, along with the chaos that lives in the halls of the school.

He knows that in the library he would find friends, and larger tables, and more comfortable chairs. He would have immediate access to any book he needed for his paper. But he prefers to sit on the floor in this office, his back against the wall, papers spread out all around him like a moat of stationary.

“You’re cluttering up my office,” she tells him as she walks back into the room with a stack of papers.

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true. Why don’t you just bring a desk and a chair in if you’re going to insist on doing your homework here?”

“You know I can’t, Mrs. Landingham. If a desk and chair go missing, my father will find out I do my homework in here.”

“And that’s a bad thing why?”

Jed shrugs. “He’d rather I did it in the library, like everyone else.”

“Hmph.” She doesn’t press the matter. He’s pretty sure that she’s seen him wince a few times today, and has probably put some things together. He is pretty sure she put things together long ago, but there is a decorum about her, and a devotion to him, that stops her from asking. He doesn’t question it, he is just grateful.

He furrows his brow and concentrates on the paper before him, sitting in the space between his crossed legs. An essay on “Interpretations of the Monroe Doctrine and its Influences on Current Foreign Policy”. He bites the tip of his eraser for a minute, gathering his thoughts, then begins to write.

****

Delores has grown used to her grief and anger, a state that is sometimes harder than having them sharp and fresh. They have dulled over time, smoothed out into a constant flow and ebb, only rising again during times like this: Christmas at the White House. Her tulips are now poinsettias and the offices are filled with a holy grandeur of red, green, and gold. Carolers sing to her on her way in and out of the building. She ignores them, because they are a reminder of everything she tries to forget. She and her sons used to carol for their church.

The President understands her aversion to these festivities and does not press her. He only leaves a card on her desk the night before the holiday, a non-specific, non-denominational, non-Christmas card. Gilded and made from thick, creamy paper, it says only “Thank You” on the outside, but the inside is filled with short, eloquent sentences that make her smile. He always could write well.

At home, having time to sit on her couch or turn on her radio seems like a frivolous luxury. She pours a glass of wine and takes it, along with the card, out onto her patio. She wraps herself in a woolen shawl and sits there on the bench, gazing up at the stars that are a little less than clear, here in the D.C. sky. When she is ready, she opens up the card and reads the message over again.

“Delores,  
Thank you for your sacrifices. Your shoulders hold up far more than God intended; He and I both marvel at your strength. I am daily grateful for your presence, as what I have learned from you has been immeasurable. We could fill many pages with all the things unsaid; you will never know how much I appreciate the one person I don’t need to say them to.

Josiah Bartlet”

She smiles again, reading his words, and takes a sip of wine. Then she sits the glass and the card down on the glass table beside her, puts her hand over her mouth, and lets the grief come. It stopped taking the form of hot tears long ago, now it simply racks her body with trembles and tiny noises. The pain is an indulgence, something she rarely lets herself feel. There is no time for it in her days; her duty does not include any spare moments for these things. But tonight, on the eve of another Christmas, there is an unspoken allowance for self-indulgences. And so she lets the grief come and speaks the words that have lived in her heart since the first moment of her belly becoming rounded.

“My boys… my boys.”

****

Jed Bartlet understood the nature of sadness, at least as far as his own experience of it went. He had lived through the deaths of several individuals that were very dear to him. But not even the death of his own father had given him this lost feeling in the pit of his stomach, as though he was a ship who had suddenly broken anchor without the captain aboard and was drifting out to sea.

He stood beside the grave that contained the body of the woman he’d come to depend on, without planning on forging a bond that deep. He had referred to her as the voice of reason in his own mind, fond of her wry tones and her special kind of wisdom, but until now he hadn’t realized that the part of him that was content to stay quiet had only been doing so on the assumption that there was one woman alive who already knew all the things he hadn’t said out loud.

The wind rustled through his hair and he felt adrift. He wished she would come to him again, the specter that had arrived in his office on that windy night. But he knew that she would not. The silent part of him cried out, raged against the headstone, but he didn’t open his mouth. All around the perimeter of the cemetery, Secret Service agents shifted into focus and then became invisible again. Jed got down on one knee, leaning in to the granite slab.

“I know that you know all the things I can’t tell you, Delores. But I still wish I’d had time to say them to you.” He paused. “Dammit, Mrs. Landingham, I still needed you! Your duty is not done yet!”

He dropped his head and shook, his eyes wet beneath their closed lids. He let out a long breath and dropped his voice, hearing the finality in his own tone. “I’m sorry. Your duty is done. Thank you for serving so well.”

He stopped again, then gave the headstone a small smile. “And just for you, I’m going to let that desk sit vacant for a while. I don’t know how I’d ever find someone to fill your shoes, anyway. Charlie’s probably going to work himself to the bone trying to get everything done.” He paused again. “He’s a good kid.”

He rose and looked back toward the car. He could see Leo standing beside the motorcade.

“Time for me to go, Mrs. Landingham. Enjoy your rest. God knows you deserve it.”

With that he turned and began walking back toward the cars. His duty was not yet finished, not for a long while. Mrs. Landingham had seen to that.


End file.
